


Dear Penthouse Letters,

by DoubtingRabbit



Series: Cable & Deadpool's Collection of Fun! [3]
Category: Cable and Deadpool, Deadpool (2016), Deadpool - All Media Types
Genre: Cablepool - Freeform, Comedy, Drabble, Epistolary, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-12
Updated: 2017-08-12
Packaged: 2018-12-14 10:09:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11780949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoubtingRabbit/pseuds/DoubtingRabbit
Summary: ["Wade, I'm not paying for the postage to send this.""When did you get to be such a prude about our sexual exploits?""It never happened.""The call of the prude."]





	Dear Penthouse Letters,

**Author's Note:**

> Big thanks to BlitheFool for always being my beta with such little notice as to be ridiculous. Otherwise, this is a drabble I'm posting because I can't think of anything better to do with it.

I never thought it could happen to me but oh, boy! was I ever wrong!

It started as an ordinary Wednesday, going through my workout routine to get shredded for my very important job of having the thinnest muscles in a group full of mutants and other superhumans whose powers seem to be entirely musculature-related.

Take Cable. I mean, yeah, he nearly clears seven feet tall, and sure, they list him at 159kg on the collector's cards? but let me tell you, that's gotta be guesstimation. They aren't taking, ahem, certain parts of his anatomy into consideration. I'd say at least 162kg*. ;-) Those beefy 60cm biceps, 82cm thighs and a 150cm chest don't just show up on their own. They take work and refinement.

Anyway, point is, I was pumping iron in the weight training room when Big Bad Future Man himself comes walking in. I didn't believe it at first, because I had Brad Fiedel's theme from the 1991 movie Terminator 2: Judgment Day blasting in my ears, and, well... you know the part where it goes WOOOOSH! And then there's some angelic vocalizing in the background?

I want you to imagine the scene: florescent lighting, the stale smell of sweat and disinfectant spray hazing the ambiance, and Nathaniel "Hot Damn, Son" Summers enters the room in nothing but a black "PROVIDENCE GYM" A-shirt, and some tiny royal blue shorts that leave barely anything to the imagination. 

Then you tell me that you wouldn't think you were hallucinating, too.

And if you say no, I won't believe you.

So, there I am, in nothing but my mask and an acid washed denim jeedo, just throwing myself over the stability ball like I'm begging for it. (I am.) And that is when Nate goes to do his squats like he doesn't even notice. Fucker even has the gall to look up in shock, like he only just now saw me after he's already done with his warm up stretches and half way through his first set of 250kg bench presses and give me an uninterested "hello." Being coy, clearly.

It was about then that I decided to turn up the heat to bhut jolokia proportions and pour on the Scoville units by working out my thighs on the leg ad/abductor. Show him just what these loins-of-not-actual-steel could do.

It only took a few sets of me riding the equipment like a mechanical bull to get him to look, but finally got what it was I'd wanted all along. One cold blue eye and one glowing gold checking out my Adonis-like physique and… uh… unique complexion, as he crossed the empty gym to watch me work my magic. Body rippling, I turned for a bit of reverse cowboy on the bicycle seat bench when he finally spoke.

That rough and tumble voice washed over me, tinged with breath lust, "That's not a proper use of gym equipment, Wade.".

I huskily agreed and asked for his help. Such a big strong man could surely give little ol' Deadpool a hand. Or both hands. (One of them is super cold, and I like to avoid it.)

He agreed, plucked me off the machine and flung me onto the incline bench like a rag doll. Would have been really hot, too, if I hadn't heard my collarbone snap like a chicken wing--nothing I hadn't ignored before for a perfect view of Nate's patchwork chest between my trembling knees.

He was bribing me with me a kiss for every sit-up I could actually do and I made it straight up to five before he was begging for my bod.

"Please, Wade, you're on the machine I want," said his lips, but his eyes said, "yes, yes!"

I locked my ankles behind his neck; thick as three pit bulls, and just as powerful. Rawr I pulled him closer for a better look. It was all it took to finally bring his attention around to where it should be. I looked into both of his real creepy looking eyes all ice blue and actual cornea-searing light, but I bit my busted lip behind my mask nonetheless.

And then he did me dirty on the weight lifting bench.

And we all lived happily ever after, the end. 

Love and kisses,  
Deadpool

**Author's Note:**

> * - And you will pry my Metric System from my cold, dead, Canadian hands.


End file.
